


Espionage and Broom Cupboards

by Besin



Series: World Domination and Other Occupations [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Coersion, M/M, Mutant!Peter, Steter Week, X-Men AU - Freeform, mutant!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4253310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With introductions far behind them -- some more than others -- Peter and Stiles embark on their first mission together under the umbrella of the Echo Corp. subsidiary, the Mutant Emergency Dispatch Service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Steter Week everyone. I'll be posting an installment in this series once a day.

Early in the morning, a heavy knock rings through Peter’s room. It races around the small room quickly. The walls – white, barren, solitary – seem to vibrate with the foreign noise, allowing the sound to echo far too long before the sounds dies, swift and true. Fingers smoothing against the crisp pages of a pocket bible, Peter’s eyes slip away to light upon the door with veiled interest. “Come in,” he calls blandly, shifting against the wall with a small grimace.

The knob squeals lightly as it twists, a dark man is peering in with wide brown eyes, shoulder easing slowly into the room as he leans in from the hallway. His attention catches first on the tiny, empty room with distaste, then the pillow propped behind Peter’s back.

The man sits opposite the door, staring up at him with mock curiosity.

“Incubus, right?” the guard asks.

“Don’t call me Incubus,” Peter drawls, lips twitching into a frown. “It’s so distasteful.”

“Most codenames are,” the man murmurs monotonously in reply. “You’ve been called for a mission. Go shower and get something from the company closet. You know the passcode, right?”

Peter shrugs, glancing with false amusement at a wall. “I know four numbers in a sequence.”

“Then hurry and get dressed. Your partner is already in Ms. Martin’s office.” The guard moves to step away, but a clicking tongue stops him.

“Boyd, right?” Peter asks.

Boyd turns back to the man, shrugging. “Yeah. What of it?”

“Is that your name? Boyd?” he asks, hand motioning to the guard’s torso. “No… Hammerman? Yellow Jacket?”

“I don’t have powers, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Boyd insists sharply. “I’m just a normal guy.”

Peter scoffs. “Normal. Right.”

“Take a shower,” Boyd insists, easing out of the room. “Get changed. Hurry it up.” He steps out of the frame, and withdraws from Peter’s side, leaving the door wide open in his wake.

With a put-upon sigh, Peter rises to his feet. His overlarge sweats brush and sway from side to side as he makes his way down the long hall, glancing from door to door as he passes. It isn’t long before he comes across an open arch, giving way to a room lined with tiles. He steps into the room with a frown, ignoring the grind of a long, scaled tail against hard floors as he snatches up a small bottle of soap. Small booths line the walls, with long curtains and a bucket for laundry. Jackson is in one of the wide, public booths; shoulders too broad for a small capsule. Passing him by, the older man grabs at a towel from a tall rack before drawing up to his usual booth. The curtain squeals against the rod as it is tugged aside, then back into place as Peter steps up to the drain.

The capsule is wet, soaking through his socks and turning the fabric an off beige. He toes them off quickly, tossing them through the curtain and into the waiting tub. After a moment of hesitation his shirt follows. Then his sweat pants. And when his boxers join them he stands alone in the shower for a long moment, fingers playing with the healed, rippling skin of his torso before reaching forward to switch on the water.

It’s a bitter sort of cold, punching his skin with little needles. He doesn’t wait for it to warm, instead swabbing under his pits with soap before going quickly over his arms, legs, and face. Just as the water begins to warm, he twists the knobs until the spray draws to a stop and grabs at his towell. He dries himself quickly. Mechanically. And after rubbing it hastily through his hair, he wraps it securely around his waist before stepping out into the room. He passes the rest of the stalls, squaring his shoulders and striding past the cubbies of sweats to step up to a door marked, “Closet.” His fingers find the security box quickly, typing in a four-digit code before it beeps, the red light turns green, and the door pops open.

His palm grips the handle tight, and he steps through to the next room with a sigh.

As soon as he’s through the door, a blonde woman strides up to him with a long black jacket and slacks. “You want to wear this one,” she insists, thrusting the suit at him. “Trust me.”

Peter flinches, door slamming shut behind him as he gasps, “What-”

“Clairvoyant,” she tells him swiftly. “My name is Erica, my power is fabric future sight, and you really want to wear this suit because you’re going to be trapped in a closet for about ten minutes today and you’ll want it to breathe.”

“Trapped in a…” The man shakes his head. “No-”

“Too bad, Incubus,” she teases.

“Don’t call me that.”

She snorts. “Well, I’m supposed to. Names aren’t really encouraged around here.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“No it isn’t.”

Peter fights the urge to rolls his eyes, then glances over at a changing screen. Stepping up to it, he adjusts the suit over his arm. “Fine. What do I call you, then?”

“The company calls me Matchmaker,” she hums, fingers finding the trailing skirt of a long dress. “I can see the future of clothes.”

Dropping the towel, Peter goes through the suit stack and retrieves a pair of boxers. Stepping into them, he drawls, “Do you make a habit of peeking in on people?”

“Only when I’m supposed to,” she singsongs.

The undershirt comes next, followed by black slacks, socks, and shoes. “This is a lot of black,” he complains.

“Yeah, she won’t even recognize you.”

“Who won’t even recognize me?”

“Can’t tell,” she insists blandly. “Might change your reaction. What you are allowed to know is that closet guy thinks your butt is cute.”

He rolls his eyes, but tugs the shirt – a deep, navy blue – over his shoulders before staring down at the vest and jacket. “I thought you said my clothes needed to breathe.” His fingers work quickly at the buttons.

“You’re going to drape the jacket over your arm,” she tells him. “Closet guy is going to get a little chilly. You’re going to give it to him.”

“My…” He trails off curiously. “Closet guy?”

 Erica hums an affirmative. “He will drool like a small dog.”

Finishing up the shirt, he pulls the vest over his shoulders, grabs the jacket, and steps out from behind the screen. He [smoothes down the front with a sigh. It’s a bit tighter than he would like](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MGkwf68IVsY/UOQcEm6k83I/AAAAAAAAE_Q/m9XgesN4mFQ/s1600/Latest+Hugo+Boss+Men%27s+Black+Collection+2012-13+-001++--+www.worldfashioncorner.blogspot.com.jpg), and he bristles as the woman’s eyes graze across his chest. He might as well be naked, the way her eyes linger.

…

When Peter strides into Lydia’s office, eyes glancing momentarily to the Tank, his eyes sweep the room before lighting upon Lydia and… Stiles.

Stiles in a [gray suit](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a3/6f/d0/a36fd01f2dad1ce1e3fd997933f0a0ad.jpg).

For a long, tense moment Peter is convinced Stiles is in his twenties.

Lydia's office is awash in green; the light from the tank glittering across the polished concrete floor as the fluorescents illuminate the water. The only other glow is the computer's many monitors. The scientist is tapping away at a screen when Peter approaches, murmuring, "I'm keeping mum about this, Stiles."

"But it involves me! Directly! Come on!"

"It could skew – or even destroy – your timeline.”

"Am I interrupting something?" Peter asks.

They both glance up, eyes drawing curiously along the length of his suit.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably against the desk, hands resting behind him on the surface curling into tense fists. “What are you supposed to be?” he asks, voice quivering lightly with the touch of nerves. “A stock broker?”

“I think in this case it depends on the mission,” Peter replies nonchalantly.

“In which case you’re a liaison,” Lydia points out, demanding their attention with a subtle twirl of her strawberry blonde ponytail. “Now, boys, listen close. I’m only going to say this once. I’m talking to you, Stiles.”

Stiles’ head flies up. “I’m-”

“The both of you will be taken to an affiliate of ours who works very closely with our programming department. They’ve recently developed a piece of tech that, to my knowledge, is under strict guard. Legal means of obtaining this technology has proved ineffective, which is why we’re sending the both of you in.”

“So we’re thieves now,” Peter drawls. “Great.”

“Put simply, yes,” the woman snaps. “After you receive the location of the tech, we will be sending in a replacement team. Your job, Peter, is to wipe all memories of you from the receptionist and the person you will be meeting with before you leave. After which we will send in real liaisons who are working on a deal so that the appointment matches up.” Snatching a small sheaf of papers from her desk, she offers it to Peter with a nod. “This is your script. Make sure to follow it to the letter.”

Unconsciously, Peter’s fingers find their way to the ring about his neck.

“Now that that’s over with… Matchmaker, come in, please.”

The men glance quickly toward the door, watching carefully as Erica strides into the room on towering heels.

“About time,” the woman sneers. Motioning to Stiles and Peter with outstretched hands, she motions forward with her fingers as she draws to a stop before them. “Your inhibitors, please,” she requests.

“Inhibitors?” Peter parrots.

“She means these,” Stiles answers quickly, holding out his bracelet for the woman to examine.

Erica takes it in hand with a grin. “Now you, Incubus.”

Peter frowns at the name, but bares his neck without complaint.

The lacquer of her nails clicks ominously against the metal about his neck, echoing through the green room like an omen. Erica’s eyes slide shut at the sound. They flutter lightly in the dim light, eyeshadow dark against her pale complexion. Then, just as suddenly, they open wide.

“Will we have to worry about them?” Lydia inquires softly.

Erica shakes her head. “You don’t have to worry about them,” she replies lowly. “They make a good pair.”

Stiles and Peter share confused looks, then glance away.

“You may go, now,” Lydia informs them quickly, shooing them away with a hand. But soon after they turn, making short work of the distance between the computers and the door, she calls to their backs, "Just one last thing.” As they turn, she smiles pointedly at Stiles. "We crash the Delta Nu New Years party in our Sophomore year," she informs him evenly. "Don't let me sleep with the guy with a red umbrella in his drink."

Stiles smiles back at her, then steps out the door.

At Lydia’s side, Erica giggles.

“There’s a story there; I know it.”

“My distant past, his distant future.”

“Uh-huh…” Erica hums, eyes glancing pointedly down her companion’s form. “Beautiful dress,” she notes, hand shooting out to pluck at one of the ruffles. Stepping away with a wide grin, the woman waltzes out of the room with a smug wave.

Lydia watches her go with a flat anger deep in her eyes. “Jackson,” she calls under her breath.

From the shadows emerges the tall, scaled form of her assistant. “Yes, Lady?”

Tugging off the dress, she tosses it angrily to the floor, eyeing the tasteful ruffles with bitter regret before snatching a simple slip from a lower drawer of her desk. “Burn that.”

“Yes, Lady.”


	2. The Closet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Arnaud for the last minute edit.

Rented limos smell like lemon.

It wasn’t something Peter was under the impression he would ever learn. But he did. The company had shooed them into a leather interior car with a wide open space between the seats; the floor, ceiling, and surface of the bar all smelling faintly of a chemical lemon.

Stiles eyes the bar for a while as they’re drive out of the compound, fingers picking at the seam of his inhibitor, leaning into every turn. “This is kind of nice,” he notes.

Peter shifts uneasily in his seat, glancing out the window. “I’m just waiting for a superhero to come out and stop us,” he drawls. “To…” He makes a motion with his hands. “Intervene.”

“A superhero?” Stiles gapes, expression turning awestruck. “We have those?”

Peter blinks. “Wait, you’re on a media blackout, aren’t you?”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re from 1996.”

Burying his face in his hands, Stiles groans. “Oh my god, they already told you?” he groans. “Jesus.”

“You told me,” Peter corrects. “The last time we were on a mission.”

“What was ages ago,” the boy complains.

“It was three months.”

“Which is six months for me, bozo.”

Humming lightly, the diving screen for the from cab slides down just enough to display a dark cap. “We’ve arrived,” they tell them, voice light.

Stiles draws up with a grin. Clapping his hands together in open amusement, he shifts in his seat. “”Showtime.”

“How are you excited about this? We’re _stealing_.”

“How are you not excited for this?” Stiles snaps back. “We’re _outside_.”

Rolling his eyes, the older man pops open the door and steps quickly from the car, emerging from the cage of tinted glass to drop onto a well-worn sidewalk. Sunshine glares fiercely against his eyes, and they shutter against it. “Why is it so bright?”

“Echo Corp’s fluorescents suck,” Stiles deadpans, stepping out after him. “Let’s head in.” Glancing furtively toward Peter, he tugs unconsciously at his suit jacket, undoing the center button so that it splits about his torso, framing it. He strides, back straight in a professional jaunt, toward the front glass double doors.

Peter is quick to follow, suspicious eyes turning about the mostly empty street before tugging cautiously at the collar of his shirt, drawing it up higher in a hope of hiding the ring of steel circling his neck.

Inside the building is a bitter breeze of air conditioning blasting through from the ceiling vents. Walls of glass and a fancy bagel station are the first things Stiles notes when he strides up to the receptionist, greeting her with a wide smile. “Hey there, beautiful,” he coos amiably.

Peter’s eyes narrow, annoyance thinning his lips. “Flirting,” he hisses under his breath. “Seriously?”

The plump woman glances up from her screen with a soft smile and a blush, eyelashes fluttering. “Hello,” she coos back shyly. “How may I help you?”

“We have a meeting scheduled for three O’clock.”

“Name?”

“We should be listed under Echo Corp,” he redirects quickly.

Nodding quickly, the woman types quickly into her computer, short-trimmed nails running nearly parallel to the keys. “May I see your ID, please?”

Reaching into his suit jacket, Stiles presents a small rectangle of plastic.

Peter leans forward incrementally, catching sight of the badge before it’s snatch away by dark fingers.

Echo Corporation Research and Development, G. Stilinski.

Passing the badge back with a nod, the woman waves her hand toward the elevators. “Your meeting is on the third floor; second room on your right.”

“Thank you,” Stiles coos, eyes flicking momentarily to her name badge, “Shantal. Is that how you pronounce it?”

She nods happily, lips curling into an eager grin. “Yes, it is.”

Stiles steps away from the counter with a wink, leaving Peter to follow at a skeptical distance. Only when they board the elevator and the doors slide firmly shut does he speak.

“Flirting on the job? Seriously?”

“What? She was hot,” Stiles drawls back. “And did you see her Tardis mug?”

“Tardis mug?”

“T-A-R-D-I-S. Time and-”

“I know that a Tardis is, Stiles,” Peter interjects. “Everyone knows what a Tardis is.”

“Wait, really?” he gasps. “But… no one I know watched Doctor Who. Is it popular now?”

“It’s a phenomena,” Peter scoffs dryly. “A very annoying phenomena.”

“ _I can’t believe Doctor Who is popular_ ,” Stiles breathes, sagging against the elevator rails, face slack. “People in the future are so _awesome_.”

Above, the car gives a cheery “ding!” as the doors pop open, gliding over runners to frame a long, inviting hallway.

As they step over the seam between rooms, Peter throws a rather cheery-looking ficus the stink eye.

“Wow, this place is nice,” Stiles muses with a whistle. “It’s got, like, good feng shui or something like that. This place is so much nicer than the holding facility.”

“Probably because it’s not a holding facility,” Peter points out bitterly, eyes trailing angrily over a tranquil bubbling fountain.

“Don’t be jealous,” Stiles teases.”

“I’m not jealous,” the older man drawls. “I’m envious. There’s a difference.”

The boy scoffs. “What difference?”

“Envy is wanting something you do not have; jealousy is the fear of losing something already in your possession.”

Stiles blinks, glancing up from the plush carpets as they pass the first door on the right. “Huh.” His eyes screw up. “Never figured you for the dictionary type.”

“I’m not,” Peter drawls back. “Sometimes when you learn something it actually sticks.”

“Oh, god, you’re one of _those_ ,” the boy groans. “The ‘I got good grades in high school and am thus far superior to you’ type.”

Peter turns, mouth propped open to retort sharply. But as his eyes slide over a small inter-office window in the distance, lighting upon a dark-haired woman, the smallest of gasps flit from his throat.

“Wait – is it already happening?” Stiles glances between Peter and the window. “Erica said – oh my god.”

Peter’s mouth wobbles open and closed, tongue twitching uselessly against his soft palate as he makes an attempt to reply.

“Okay, four doors down on the – come on, follow me,” Stiles murmurs, grabbing at Peter’s elbow and dragging him further down the hall. Their feet shuffle unevenly against the carpet, passing two aesthetically pleasing clocks on the way. Arranging Peter via his shoulders and elbow, Stiles shoves him bodily through an open door, stepping in quickly after him and closing it behind them.

Then the air is hot, humid, and dry.

Peter shrugs out of his jacket; a reflex.

“Come on,” Stiles prompts breathily. “Talk to me, man. Make me understand what the hell is going on. Just – go. Or something.”

“The woman we’re meeting is my sister.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open, unnoticed in the relative darkness. “I’m sorry – what?”

“The woman,” Peter hisses between his teeth, “we’re meeting,” he continues darkly, “is my _sister_.”

“Your… sister. Okay. That’s… That’s not intimidating. At all. In any form of… fucking hell. It’s your _fucking sister_? What are we going to do? Very literally? What are we going to do? Our cover is blown. Our cover is completely, utterly blown! And I’m not talking mutual agreement blown. I’m talking back alley deals with a twenty dollar bill and dubious consent blown!”

“Your analogies are not helping,” the older man snaps.

“Well, they’re helping me!”

As the air settles hotly between them, they both take a moment to breathe.

“So,” Stiles manages after a long while, clearing his throat awkwardly. “You have a sister?”

Peter shrugs, settling further back in the darkness of the closet, only to wince and lean forward as he nearly upends a cluster of mops. “Sort of.”

“‘Sort of?’” the boy quotes sharply. “How do you ‘sort of’ have a sister?”

“I haven’t seen her in almost twenty years,” he admits under his breath.

“Twenty…” Stiles parrots, aghast. His hands come up, fingers dragging anxiously through his hair without a second thought, catching in the clumps of dried gel there. He pulls them away with a grimace, though they soon fly up to pat cautiously at his do. “That’s a long time.”

Peering through the relative darkness at the boy’s now ruined hair, Peter frowns. “No shit.”

“Why?”

His eyes turn from the ruined gel, fingers twitching at his sides. “Why what?”

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly. “Why so long? And don’t give me some vague-ass answer. We’re partners. We should know shit about each other.”

Glancing from the boy’s hair to his eyes, Peter reaches slowly for Stiles’ face in the meager light pooling through the cracks of the door. When the boy makes no attempt to move, his hands settle lightly on his companion’s hair, correcting the rough strands with nervous fingers. “My parents found out I was gay, so I ran away.” Smoothing a lock into place, his pinky sweeps a lazy trail along the side of a pale, moled face, brushing through trimmed sideburns. “When people started coming after me, I never went back.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on!” Throwing his hands up, Stiles dramatically sweeps the nervous hands away as his voice rises above a harshly restrained whisper. “So you’re telling me the whole ‘evading M.E.D.S. for twenty years’ epic was legitimately an accident?”

“Mostly.”

The boy blows a quiet raspberry, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. "But gay, though? Seriously? How badly did they react?"

Peter takes a tense breath, glancing to the seam of light peeking through the door, lips drawn taut. “I’m not telling you this.”

“Then what will you tell me, huh?”

“Just because we’re partners doesn’t mean you have to know everything about me.”

“Fine. Whatever. Don’t tell me. I don’t care.”

And with these words, the weight of lead settled deep in Peter’s stomach.

Stiles’ attention flickers quickly from the broom at his side to the man before him, taking in the rushed breathes and the sliver of jaw drawn tight, just barely visible in the cramped darkness. Only a few short seconds pass before he purses his lips. Then – despite his words; despite their age; despite the fact that they barely know each other – he reaches forward and clumsily takes hold of the very hand he’d just knocked away.

The shuddering breath to follow is wet. "They yelled, mostly,” Peter admits. “Denied my relation to them. Called me a queer deviant."

"Woah. Harsh."

"You kidding? That's normal."

"Not where I'm from."

Peter's eyes turn up from the floor, blessing over the stretch of pale skin that seems to glimmer in the dim light of the closet. For the breakfast of instants the very air in his lungs comes to an abrupt, anxious stall.

"What?" Stiles asks, eyelashes fluttering.

For a long moment, the man can only stare. It is as if the last second had passed in a lifetime. It's sung in his head. Danced in his memory. And behind his eyes it painted a scene that he was not quite ready to acknowledge. “I just…” Peter trails off, word stalling painfully in his throat, dragging nails up and down the insides of his skin as a threatening at any moment to burst from his very mouth in a scream. His eyes flicker away from the boy’s face, ashamed. “You seem very familiar. That's all.”

And then they are quiet.

In the small space of the closet, they lean forward incrementally. The space shrinks. It seems to echo with the steady, desperate squeals of their lungs. The creak of their joints. The gentle whisper of fingertips against a wide, pale jaw.

They stand like this for a long, tense moment before Stiles moves away with the smallest of nervous chuckles. “Whoa, back up, I’m… I’m not having my first real kiss surrounded by a bunch of brooms just because you have family problems and a nice ass.”

Peter’s lips pop open, surprised, before he shakes his head. “How about…”

The boy turns his face up, tense, as his partner trails off. “How about?” he prompts softly.

“How about…” Clearing his throat, Peter nods to the door with the softest of grins. “How about when neither of us are in the closet?”

A flush works its way across Stiles’ cheeks, lighting his eyes in the dim shadows of the closet. "Hold that thought, dude,” he murmurs breathily. “We have a job to do."


	3. The Jacket

Half falling out of the closet, Stiles stumbles into the hallway with a smug grin.

Peter follows quickly, closing the door behind them with nervous glance up and down the hall. His eyes narrow suspiciously at a young woman as she passes them by, cleaning cart in hand. He stares until she avoids his gaze, wheel squeaking obnoxiously as she wheels it into the elevator.

And then they are alone.

Shifting his jacket against his arm, Peter nervously adjusts his tie with his free hand.  “Great,” he drawls. “This isn’t incriminating at all.”

“If only Erica – or, sorry, _Matchmaker_  – could see me now,” Stiles drawls.

This is met with a shrug. “I think she already has.”

The boy chuckles. “Yeah, probably.”

Turning his eyes back to their designated door, Peter’s expression turns grim. “Before the briefing – Erica said-”

“Matchmaker,” Stiles corrects.

“Fuck the code names,” Peter snaps. “ _Erica_ said she wouldn’t recognize me.”

“And you think maybe she was talking about your sister?”

Drawing his hand away from his tie, the man fixes his attention on Stiles.  “Only one way to find out.” He strides coolly down the hall, arms tucked at his sides; fingers plucking at his cuffs; back ramrod straight as he lopes directly up to the woman’s office door and knocks politely twice.

Stiles jogs quickly up to the man, fingers flying nervously to his mussed hair.

The door pops open without fanfare, the dark-haired woman standing nearly as tall as the both of them in a pinstriped suit and tasteful heels.

“Talia Hale,” Peter greets warmly, offering his hand.

“Hello,” the woman offers in reply, meeting the hand with her own in a solid, smooth shake. After, her arms drop back to her sides, fingers twitching lightly alongside the seams of her pressed slacks. “It seems I haven’t been paying too much attention to my schedule. May I ask who you are?”

"Echo Corp.” Stiles supplies quickly, snatching his badge from his jacket pocket and striding forward to present it eagerly. “And its holdings."

Glancing down at the badge, Talia nods and waves them in with a hand. “Take a seat.”

“While that would be nice,” the boy tells her softly as they step into the room, door clicking firmly shut in their wake, “it would probably be best if we just skip to the point.”

The woman frowns, glancing between them suspiciously. “The point?”

Stiles looks pointedly at Peter.

Rolling his eyes, the man clears his throat before demanding from a place deep in his chest, “Tell us where the HV12 is being stored.”

Talia’s eyes flutter. “It’s in my desk.”

Peter flinches.

“I’ll get it,” Stiles volunteers quietly, stepping away with a hesitant expression.

Peter watches, eyes narrowed suspiciously, as the boy reaches into Talia’s desk to retrieve a small, insignificant phone from the drawer.

“What is this?” Stiles inquires softly, glancing up from the brick in his hands to look Peter in the eye.

“It's a phone,” he explains tiredly, attention fixed on the motionless form of his sister as she stands, hypnotized, before him like a doll.

“This is not a phone,” the boy argues. “This is, like, a brick or something. A very small brick.”

“Just put it in your jacket and let's go.” Pointing an exasperated glance over at his companion, Peter turns to the door, fingers twitching at his sides before coming up to grip the door knob firmly.

“Is this another one of those future things that I'm not supposed to know about?”

“Yes.” Holding the door open for his companion, Peter hisses a breath between his teeth. “Hurry up or I'll leave you behind.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Coming, coming.” Drawing his jacket out with one hand, styles text the phone in the small pocket of the inner lining. He steps around the desk with a hesitant glance at his partner. and as he draws beside him, shoes shuffling awkwardly against the thick, plush carpet, their eyes meet.

The moment is insignificant. The moment is quiet. And in that moment, Stiles grins smallest, sweetest thing Peter has ever seen.

And then he's gone. Out into the hall, striding away with a subtle sort of confidence that seems to fill the very air Peter is breathing.

Turning to the woman, his sister, Talia, the man slowly closes his eyes. “You don't remember me,” he tells her, script fresh behind his eyelids as the words echo endlessly in his own head. “You don't remember us.”

He strides from the room with a weight in his stomach, eyes flicking from side to side as he approaches the elevator with a mixture of apprehension and anger.

“I guess that's it.”

Peter frowns at the boy’s words, but doesn’t comment does he steps into the car. As the door slides shut he breathes a sigh of relief.

“You wanna get some Chinese?” Stiles suggests suddenly, earning a startled glance.

“Food,” his partner snaps sharply. “That’s honestly what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Dude, the mission just went off without a hitch. We deserve a treat.”

“You're not allowed treats.”

“Now why would you think that?” the boy drawls.

“Because you’re not allowed outside,” Peter explains quickly. “It’s not a very difficult leap to make.”

“Fuck you. I’m allowed treats,” Stiles mumbles, leaning against the side of the elevator to sulk.

“Think about treats after we leave,” the man drones, eyes fixed on the elevator doors as they slide quickly open. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Of course we’re not out of the woods. We’re _never_ going to be out of the woods. We _live_ in the woods.”

Striding calmly up to the receptionist, Peter deadpans, “You don’t remember me. You don’t remember us.”

She glances up, eyes unfocused, but already he’s striding away.

Stiles chases after him, suit jacket fluttering behind him as he races to keep up. Within seconds they stand before the building, watching the limo pull up and stepping into the back.

“How’d it go?” the driver inquires dryly.

“Without a hitch.”

Halfway through Peter’s reply, the center window climbs swiftly to a close, leaving the two alone.

“Well, he’s conversational,” Stiles drawls, reaching into the mini-bar for a chilled bottle of water as they pull away from the building. “A right tre- ah!” As the limo turns a sharp corner, a deluge of water spills from the top of the bottle and cascades over the front of Stiles’ shirt. “Cold, cold!”

Knocking insistently on the center window, Peter waits for it to scroll down before asking, “Are there any towels?”

“No,” the driver replies cooly.

Up goes the window.

“Crap,” Stiles spits, staring down at his soaked front with narrowed eyes.

For a long moment, Peter can only stare.

Glancing up, Stiles eye’s the older man for a small second before asking, “Hey, can I have your jacket?”

“What?”

“Can I have your jacket?” he asks again, motioning to the article draped lazily over Peter’s arm. “You’re not using it.”

For a long moment, Peter stares at the jacket before offering it silently.

Stiles takes it with a thankful grin, setting it on the seat beside him before his fingers gravitate to the buttons of his shirt.

Peter turns away.

The boy laughs. “So, gay, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously, I am, too,” Stiles drawls amusedly. “Well, sort of. Do they have a word for it in the future? Liking everyone?”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert,” he drawls, eyes fixed pointedly on the blackened windows, “but I’m assuming you mean Bisexual.”

“Bi-sex-sual,” the boy parrots. “Bi- _sexual_. Hmm…” He clicks his tongue. “Feels strange. Are you sure that’s the word? I feel like there should be a P somewhere in there. Or, like, a D. Something phallic.”

Peter scoffs. “Bet your parents loved that.”

“I haven’t told him yet.”

The man fights to keep his attention on the window. “Him?”

Stiles nods sharply, though it goes unnoticed. “Yeah. It’s just me and my dad, now.”

“Well,” he drawls amusedly, “I'm a little busy leapfrogging between lives.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“You got that right,” the boy scoffs.

For a few long, tense minutes, there is nothing but silence.

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

Peter glances up from the window, staring in surprise at the line of revealed skin peeking out from between the collar of the jacket. “For what?” he asks a bit belatedly, tearing his attention away from the exposed collarbone.

“For what happened with your parents,” he explains softly. “That must have been pretty shitty.”

“... Thanks.”

…

**Bonus:**

Knocking firmly on Stiles’ door, Danny stares as it is wrenched quickly open. His eyes flit over the boy’s mussed hair, absent shirt, and open suit jacket with amusement.

“Well.”

“Well what?”

“Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Stiles closes the door in his face with an exasperated groan.


End file.
